Mary McEvoy, 49, a ‘live wire,’ dies
sue rich (suerich@journalist.com)
Merriam Park Post, December 2002 issue, Volume 25, No. 11
Wellstone aide also remembered for scholarly work, neighborhood activism and singing
For most Minnesotans, the moment they first heard of Sen. Paul Wellstone’s death in a plane crash is permanently and painfully burned into memory.
But for many St. Paul residents, there was a second shockwave when they learned that Mary McEvoy, 49, had perished on that fateful trip to attend a funeral and do some political campaigning.
After Tamera Tesky, McEvoy’s friend and a DFL activist, heard the news about Wellstone, she had a gut feeling McEvoy had been on board. Hours later, she and two friends were holding signs—“We love [heart symbol] Mary M.” and “Remember Mary”—with a crowd of mourners at the State Capitol.
The trio stood high on a ledge next to the steps leading to the rotunda and held signs above their heads as TV cameras swept the crowd.
McEvoy’s oldest daughter, Clare, spotted the signs on television and soon arrived on the scene. “She just came up and said, ‘Can I hold a sign for my mom?,’” said Tesky, tearing at the recollection. Clare joined the group, hoisted a sign, surveyed the scene of thousands singing and holding candles, and reportedly said, “My mom would’ve loved this rally.”
Since her death, Merriam Park’s McEvoy has been likened to a “live wire,” a “bright light,” a “fireplug,” a “firecracker,” a “ray of light” and a “spark.” Indeed, she filled many roles—wife and mother, university professor, political insider, neighborhood activist and singer—but a signature current of brightness and boundless enthusiasm seemed to infuse energy into everyone she met and everything she did.
The move to Minnesota
After the University of Minnesota offered her a job in 1990, McEvoy and her family moved to St. Paul from her native Tennessee, where she was a professor at Vanderbilt University. At the U of M, McEvoy was an internationally renowned professor of educational psychology.
The family lived on Ashland Avenue in Snelling-Hamline for several years before settling into their Portland Avenue home in Merriam Park. McEvoy was married to James (Jamie) Cloyd, a schoolteacher for children with emotional and behavioral challenges. She is also survived by three children, Clare, a junior in high school, Becca, a ninth grader, and Luke, a seventh grader.
While McEvoy was recognized as a rising star in academic and political circles, she was also known for making family life her top priority. Friend and colleague Kris Melloy, a University of St. Thomas special education professor, said the McEvoy-Cloyd clan worked to help one another pursue their interests while staying close.
“I don’t know how they made it work,” Mellow marveled.
Tesky remembers going to the McEvoy-Cloyd home to watch political debates. McEvoy also swept family members into the activity, deftly merging the two groups.
“You could just see how she had this incredible closeness with her children, her family,” Tesky said.
Tesky also recalls seeing McEvoy and Cloyd biking together to her front lawn for a Grand Old Day gathering. “They were so cute, biking together. They did everything together,” she said. McEvoy and Cloyd were married for more than 20 years.
When Tesky asked how the two met, Cloyd replied, “In a mental institution.” Elaborating, Cloyd proceeded to explain how McEvoy had been making a presentation on how to work with people with difficult behaviors and he was instantly enamored.
Cloyd recalled the couple’s unlikely courtship at the memorial service for McEvoy at St. Luke’s Catholic Church. Approximately 1,000 people attended, including family, friends, colleagues, progressive activities and politicians (including former Vice President Walter Mondale, U.S. Sen. Mark Dayton, state Senate Majority Leader Roger Moe and former Hennepin County Attorney Mike Freeman, on whose gubernatorial campaign McEvoy worked in 1998).
Cloyd said McEvoy had been “a little sad” when the family moved to Minnesota, where she didn’t know many people. “But then,” he said, surveying the eclectic crowd, “she found a niche. And another niche. And niche and niche and niche and niche….”
Global connections
Melloy moved to the Twin Cities at about the same time as McEvoy. Professional colleagues in unfamiliar territory, she and McEvoy became fast friends after meeting at St. Luke’s. Their families remained connected as Melloy and McEvoy often served on boards and traveled to academic conferences together.
In early November, Melloy attended an international conference in Miami where many of McEvoy’s colleagues, from the United States and abroad, had not heard the news of her death. “They said their local papers just said [Wellstone, his wife, and daughter] ‘and three aides.’ Many people I talked to around the country said Mary’s name was not mentioned.”
Melloy found herself conveying the tragic news while still in the throes of her own grief, but took solace in seeing how “Mary’s influence reached around the globe.”
Political activism
This fall, McEvoy had taken a leave of absence to work on Wellstone’s re-election campaign. Tesky, executive director of the Minnesota Women’s Political Caucus, said that her boundless energy and quickness led many to “equate her to the female Wellstone.”
In 1998, McEvoy managed Mike Freeman’s failed gubernatorial campaign. Tammy Tesky had just graduated from college and was working as a staffer for state senator Ember Reichgott Junge when she met McEvoy on the campaign trail. She described McEvoy as a “huge mentor” for her and many other young women in the party.
McEvoy served as associate chair of the state DFL and was known for working towards both party unity and increased participation for women and minorities. A few years ago, after the DFL spotlighted just one woman, Joan Growe, in its annual honoring event, McEvoy, Tesky, and others formed the DFL Women’s Summit Committee and created the DFL Women’s Hall of Fame.
Like many, Tesky viewed McEvoy as a “co-conspirator,” even when working on competing campaigns. Tesky worked for Bob Long’s mayoral bid for the DFL endorsement while McEvoy was committed to City Council Member Jay Benanav.
Benanav, his wife, Lucy, a schoolteacher, and two of their sons joined thousands of mourners on the steps of the Capitol just hours after the plane crash. Benanav described McEvoy as “a really committed person. She believed in people and that’s what she worked for,” he said. Lucy described McEvoy as a dear friend of the family but soon found herself too overcome with emotion to speak.
Ayd Mill Road
While known internationally for her work with young children and throughout the state for her DFL leadership, McEvoy also carved out the time to play a role in the fight against the Ayd Mill Road connection.
Mike Madden met McEvoy through Neighborhoods First and joined in its effort to turn Ayd Mill Road into a linear park. McEvoy, who lived in Snelling-Hamline at the time, served on the Snelling-Hamline Community Council (SHCC) when it held an annual meeting to determine an official position on the controversial highway.
“It was the largest turnout that Snelling-Hamline had ever seen,” Madden said, “and overwhelmingly people wanted Snelling-Hamline Community Council to support the linear park.”
Madden recalled how the then-president of the council, “tried to prevent it from becoming their position” by invoking an obscure rule or other matter of protocol. McEvoy spoke up and changed the course of the day.
“She made the most compelling argument that the annual meeting should determine the position,” said Madden. The linear park option has remained the SHCC’s official position since.
Church enthusiasm
McEvoy was a member of one of the four contemporary choirs at St. Luke’s. Jim Keyes has been leader of the group for more than a decade, back to its pre-McEvoy days as an all-male outfit. After a hit performance at the annual Celebrate Marriage event, McEvoy marched up to Keyes and said, “It is not right for you to have only men in your group. You need to have a woman in your group and I’ll be the one.”
It became a co-ed choir on the spot.
The 17-member group—including several singers, a guitarist, keyboardist, fiddler and others—perform about a dozen times a year. Everyone in the group has a nickname. McEvoy’s moniker: Twisted Sister.
“She’s such a live wire,” Keyes said. “She was really a classy lady and she knew when to back off, and yet she knew when to tell you a four-letter word and what you were full of.”
This approach was just right for the high-spirited choir, where McEvoy was known, said Keyes, for “always snapping her fingers and slapping something to keep time.”
Keyes, a Republican, had his share of philosophical differences with McEvoy. However, most of their debates centered on tempo.
Said Keyes: “Mary always wanted it to go faster.”